


dive for dreams

by blackkat



Series: let life lightly dance on the edges of time [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Brother Feels, F/M, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Snark, These bbs break my heart, Time Travel, Tobirama Is Not Amused, but more of a time loop, even if they're assholes, only not exactly, oops try again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Sage of Six Paths decides he doesn’t like the ending, and Tobirama gets dragged along to fix things. The outcome is most definitely not what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. trees are their roots

**Author's Note:**

> So when I asked my twin what he wanted for his birthday, he said, in order of desire: a vacation somewhere exciting, time-travel fanfiction (gay is okay) featuring his favorite Naruto characters, and a Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. Well, brother dearest, here’s the first on your character list—especially apt, I think, considering he shares our birthday. And, for the record, this is _totally your fault_. 
> 
> The title/chapter titles comes from ee cummings’ _dive for dreams_ : “dive for dreams/or a slogan may topple you/(trees are their roots/and wind is wind)/trust your heart/if the seas catch fire/(and live by love/though the stars walk backward)

He comes to in the cold light of morning, the taste of briefly glimpsed paradise lingering on his tongue, and takes a startled breath of air sharp with a chill wind and dry earth and newly broken stone. There is a man on the ground in front of him, drained and beaten, a sword in his hand, and Tobirama has stood here before, knows this place in his very bones no matter how long it’s been since he last was here.

His brother kneels beside him, pale with exhaustion, shoulders slumped and expression sad for all that he’s won the fight. Hashirama’s eyes are not on Tobirama—they never are—but instead on his opponent, the man whom he has always wished to be his brother instead of Tobirama.

(Tobirama has never allowed himself to overlook the fact that this is a good portion of the reason for his dislike of Madara. He is many things, but blind to own faults is not one of them.)

‘ _Second chance_ ,’ something in the back of his mind whispers, and Tobirama freezes. Not his own voice, not a jutsu, because he can sense no foreign chakra effecting himself, but not a hallucination, either. Familiar, but not, heard once before when the Sage of Six Paths appeared before them, and surely, surely this isn’t what he thinks it—

The Senju are standing back, waiting, watching. The sword is heavy in Tobirama’s hand, sharp and keen and well-remembered. It hung on his wall, after he gained Raijin no Ken, because for all it was a simple blade it had served him well, but here and now it is still new, having only just tasted its first blood less than a year ago. Here and now, a simple swing will leave Madara dead and the future he just saw obsolete. Quick and merciful, and—

Hashirama is still watching Madara, his heart in his eyes, and Tobirama has always wondered bitterly if Mito knew, if she saw the same things he can. If she knew her husband loved another man so blindly, so desperately. If she cared at all, being wed to someone whose heart was never fully hers. Maybe not. She was always a strong woman, always so impossibly firm and steady as she walked her own path.

Right now, Tobirama could kill Madara. He could erase the future where war still rages and so much has gone wrong. He could protect the village that has yet to be created, as is his duty as its future leader. With one downward stroke, he could save hundreds of lives, if not thousands, and ward off the suffering that comes with so many pointless wars. He could save Mito from becoming a jinchuuriki, from starting the world on a spiral of destruction as those power-hungry trap and seal the tailed beasts in innocent victims. He could save Hashirama the grief of having to kill his best friend, the man he calls his brother but loves as something.

_Second chance_ , he thinks, and steps forward, raising his sword. Madara looks away from Hashirama for the first time, half-glazed eyes locking onto Tobirama’s with furious hatred flaring in their depths.

The voice in the back of his mind is absolutely silent.

This time, unlike the first time, he does not waste words on empty threats. Madara is still a threat, beaten as he is, and there’s no room for empty gloating. Izanagi is a possibility, but Tobirama would like to see Madara use it in the instant it takes to sever his head from his body.

The blade catches the weak winter sunlight, one heartbeat of cold brilliance as Tobirama brings it slashing down. Madara's eyes widen, and in the same instant Hashirama jerks around with horror writ large on his face, mouth opening to cry out a denial. But Tobirama has always been the merciless one, the ruthless one, even when his brother has despaired of it and him in equal measure.

He strikes and does not hesitate, does his duty as Hokage-yet-to-be, and cuts Madara's head off with a single sharp blow.

Hashirama screams a denial, leaping to his feet with grief spilling from every pore and carved into his body like a miasma, but Tobirama cannot hear him.

The moment blood spills, the voice is back, thundering through him like an earthquake through a forest and sending him to his knees with a stabbing, tearing surge of pain.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama bellows, aching and furious as his voice breaks. “Tobirama, _how could you_?”

Tobirama doesn’t even have time to catch his breath, let alone attempt to answer.

‘ _Try again,_ ’ the voice tells him, sharp and inescapable as it reverberates through his skull, and then all Tobirama knows is darkness.

 

He comes to in the muggy heat of a summer battlefield, the taste of briefly glimpsed paradise lingering on his tongue, and takes a startled breath of air thick with blood and humidity and the screams of dying shinobi. There is a man in front of him, fierce and deadly, a sword in his hands, and Tobirama has stood here before, knows this place in his very bones no matter how long it’s been since he last was here.

Uchiha Izuna snarls and lunges at him, and Tobirama knows this battle, these steps, knows that no matter the power of the Sharingan a single jump with his Flying Thunder God technique and he’ll be out of range and in a position to strike, but—

But Izuna’s death is what gives Madara his hatred. Izuna’s eyes are what give Madara his power.

He ducks back, dodges, but Izuna’s Sharingan eyes follow the motion, use the very faintest muscle twitches to predict his movements, and the Uchiha strikes.

Dimly, he hears Hashirama scream his name, and—

‘ _One more time,_ ’ the voice says, ever so faintly exasperated. Tobirama wants to protest, to object to that tone because he is very, very far from a child and has done nothing to deserve it, but the world spins sickeningly beneath his feet, and then all Tobirama knows is darkness.

 

He comes to in the cold light of morning, the taste of briefly glimpsed paradise lingering on his tongue, and takes a startled breath of air sharp with chill wind and dry earth and newly broken stone. There is a man on the ground in front of him, drained and beaten, a sword in his hand, and Tobirama has stood here before, knows this place in his very bones no matter how long it’s been since he last was here.

(He can't tell anymore, like this. Years? Moments? Months? Hours? Or is time irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, as he’s thrown through its waves like a rock skipping across storm-churned waters?)

Madara lies before him, a shadow of himself, and Tobirama could kill him, has tried once, but that wasn’t the correct answer and he _knows_ that. Without Madara to push Hashirama forward, there will be no Konoha, and regardless of Tobirama’s feelings for this particular Uchiha, he has never been as devoted to anything—even his sense of right and wrong—as he is to the village that doesn’t yet exist.

‘ _Another chance_ ,’ the voice in the back of his mind whispers, and Tobirama doesn’t freeze this time, half-expecting it. Still not his own voice, still not a jutsu, but the legendary Sage murmuring behind his ear. Familiar, but not, heard once before in something like life and then several times afterwards, and surely, surely this will end. Surely this won't continue until he loses all sense of sanity and self and—

The sword is heavy in Tobirama’s hand, sharp and keen and well-remembered. He grips the hilt, clenches his hand around it until his fingers threaten to go numb and the leather wrapping on the pommel starts to cut into hand, but he doesn’t strike. Instead, he shifts his hold and sheaths it smoothly, and the sound of steel sliding over bamboo and silk draws all eyes to him. Madara's are narrowed with suspicion despite the surprise in them, while Hashirama’s are startled but approving and their clansmen’s stares are shocked. Tobirama has never made any secret of his dislike of Uchiha Madara, and now, with him beaten and powerless, he will never have a better chance to strike.

But he doesn’t, because Hashirama’s heart is in his eyes, and even if Hashirama loves Madara as something more than simply kindred spirits, Madara has never expressed interest in more and Hashirama is content to call them brothers. It aches and stings, that Hashirama would dismiss his real brother so quickly, but Tobirama is grounded and levelheaded and likes to consider himself reasonable. He can hold his tongue, can adjust, if this is the price of peace and a better future.

But he’s lived this scene out before, knows what comes next.

“Tobirama?” Hashirama asks softly, gaze relieved but questioning, and Tobirama lifts his chin and steps back to his brother’s shoulder, leaving the choice of whether Madara lives or dies to him. It’s no choice at all, in Hashirama’s eyes, and as he looks back at his opponent Tobirama can see the resolution in his expression, the determination to bring Madara around.

Tobirama takes a breath once he’s no longer the focus of his brother’s attention. Takes another, because he knows the cost of Madara's alliance, knows what Madara will demand with his next words. Knows what Hashirama will pay, and what seeds he himself will sow, and that he cannot allow it to happen again, for the good of Konoha.

Hashirama will always be the Shodaime Hokage, but if Tobirama is not an option, Madara will be the Nidaime. Once already in his lifetime Tobirama has gone to his death for the sake of the village, and this is in no way different.

(Oh, but it aches that Hashirama would go to such lengths for a man who moments before tried to kill him, that he would kill himself for a man who does not even have the support of his clan any longer, a rogue shinobi without care for the tentative peace of the world right now. But Tobirama has never been first in his brother’s eyes—too stoic, too boring, too devoted to laws instead of the people they govern, too firmly grounded and far, far too ruthless and merciless—and he’s had an entire lifetime to accept that, or at least learn to put it aside. He can do this. He can. And for Konoha, he _will_.)

Hashirama is talking, pleading, but Tobirama only comes back to himself in time to catch Madara's next response.

“You took my last sibling from me,” he rasps, and grief and fury wage war in his eyes. “I can never trust you again.”

Hashirama’s face falls slowly, pleas giving way to a steady, grim determination. “Then…how can I earn back your trust?” he asks stubbornly, and Tobirama closes his eyes, bracing for the verbal blow.

“If you really want to earn my trust back,” he hears, exactly as he expects, “you’ll have to kill your brother with your own hands…or kill yourself. That will wipe the slate clean—that will allow me to trust your clan.”

Two choices, but it’s really only one. They all know it, because Hashirama is and always has been a hopeless fool.

Tobirama takes another breath, opens his eyes, and draws his sword again.

Behind them, where the rest of the Senju who accompanied them are scattered over the battlefield, Tōka bellows her denial, because she’s always been his best friend and greatest support, but Tobirama raises a hand to silence her. He’ll suffer for it later, likely—or would if he were alive to do so—but he’s made his choice already.

For Konoha, for his brother, for the future he has seen—

“Would it suffice,” he asks blandly, stepping up beside the two kneeling men, “if I killed myself?”

Madara's eyes go wide, clearly startled, and Hashirama pales with horror. “ _No_ ,” he bites out, staggering to his feet. “Tobirama, _I_ will—”

“It is your dream, brother,” he interrupts, though he doesn’t look away from Madara's red-and-black gaze. “Allow me to contribute to it the only way I can.”

Madara bares his teeth, and the hate in his eyes is a living thing, wild and deadly. “No,” he growls. “By his hand, or he must take his own life.”

Tobirama will never be as good a ninja as his brother. Hashirama is already called the God of Shinobi, is a legend even in their war-torn world, but right now he’s exhausted. He’s been fighting for twenty-four hours straight through, and can barely stand and hold a kunai at the same time. Tobirama is comparatively fresh, and he has the advantage of remembering a life that’s yet to come—will never come now—and he has no compunction about lunging forward, grappling with his brother until they're pressed right up against each other. Hashirama’s hand is on the hilt of Tobirama’s sword, and Tobirama touches the blade to his own jugular, fingers wrapped firmly around his brother’s on the pommel. Hashirama stares at him with wide, desperate, terrified eyes, and Tobirama smiles back at him, not allowing the expression to waver.

“You share a dream,” he says, and it isn’t soft enough to be for his brother’s ears alone, but he can't bring himself to speak directly to Madara. Not right now, with mere seconds left before him, a future to be unmade. He wonders, vaguely and with some regret—though not enough to make him waver—what will become of Kagami, Saru, Homura, and Koharu, what will happen to them without him there to guide them. But…perhaps Hashirama will take them under his wing. Or Madara, even. This is his end, but it is not _the_ end, and that is a good distinction to keep in mind. “I have not said it as often as I should, brother, but I believe in it. With all of my heart and soul and will, I believe you will bring peace to this world.”

Hashirama gasps out a denial, something frantic and broken, and Tobirama has to look away. He turns his head, glancing back, and the expression of pure shock on Madara's face is no relief. “By his hand,” he agrees, and hopes his brother will be able to move on from this. But Hashirama is strong, and his will is even stronger, and his dream is strongest yet. Konoha will be born again, and that’s all Tobirama needs to know to be able to go to his death with a smile on his face.

So he does. He lets himself smile, watches the flicker of confusion dance through Madara's dark gaze, and then looks back so Hashirama can see it too.

Perhaps this is cruel, but Tobirama has never quite managed to learn his brother’s mercy.

He grips Hashirama’s wrist, pushes closer until steel kisses flesh, and feels skin part beneath the finely honed edge. Blood, hot and wet as it slides down his neck, and Tobirama closes his eyes, thinks of peace, and lets the blade cut deep.

Somewhere in the distance, through the haze already descending over his eyes, he hears Hashirama begging, Tōka screaming, and Madara's wordless sound of what could be shock or victory or a thousand other things he no longer has the will to care about.

Suddenly, like vast hands catching him halfway through a fall, everything stops.

‘ _Still the wrong answer_. _You are more stubborn than I thought,_ ’ the voice says, sounding somewhere between vaguely amused and distantly disappointed. ‘ _But you will understand things better in a different situation, perhaps. Try again.’_

A whirl of mad light, and then all Tobirama knows is darkness.

 

He comes to in the twilight, the taste of briefly glimpsed paradise lingering on his tongue, and takes a startled breath of air rich with evening and rain and recently turned earth. There is a grave in front of him, newly filled, and Tobirama has stood here before, knows this place in his very bones no matter how long it’s been since he visited.

“Kawarama,” he whispers, and the voice is wrong. The height is wrong, his senses are wrong, the ache of exertion in every muscle is wrong, but he feels it nevertheless as he stands before his younger brother’s grave.

This is the body of a child. Tobirama’s body, yes, but it hasn’t truly been his in decades. His hands are small, the calluses not quite fully formed. He carries no weapons, when Tobirama knows he is rarely, if ever, without them. _Was_ without them, because he has lived already, _died_ already, and he doesn’t understand his presence here, in what is once again the past. So far back, with so very much ahead of him, but the damp earth beneath his feet doesn’t lie. This grave is new, Kawarama has only just died, and Tobirama is ten years old again, a _child_.

He remembers this. Remembers the funeral, Kawarama being buried alongside so very many other shinobi, his age and older, because none of them can refuse to fight regardless of their years. It was an ambush, to catch the squad alone and isolated as they carried messages back from Whirlpool, and Tobirama has already grieved for his brother, but seeing the freshly-cut flowers laid atop the grave somehow drives the loss home all over again. Tobirama’s breath catches in his throat, and he’s never been one to show emotion beyond what’s absolutely necessary, but his eyes burn dryly and his chest aches and he wants to know _why_. Why, if he truly has returned to the past, couldn’t it have been a few hours sooner? Yet another loss, and—

With the smell of grave dirt in his nose, with the evening wind raising goosebumps on his arms and the cloying sweetness of lilies filling his lungs, Tobirama closes his eyes. He takes a breath, another, and it’s getting easier with each inhalation. Easier to accept, easier to adjust, and this—

This is penance, this endless cycle. All of these times waking up in the wrong body, the wrong time, are his karma for what he done. Because no one spoke a word of blame, during the war, but Tobirama is nothing if not clever and well able to see what his own hands have wrought. Madara driven to insanity by Izuna’s death, brought back to life by Edo Tensei. The Uchiha, all dead but for a single survivor, because of the seeds of mistrust Tobirama had unwittingly sown. His own legacy, twisted and perverted by one of his own handpicked shinobi, dividing the village and sending darkness creeping through the roots of his brother’s creation.

Perhaps there is good as well, but Tobirama can hardly see it. He has done so much damage, caused such hate. He is responsible for Madara’s madness, because he did not turn aside his blow even though he knew how Hashirama only ever wanted mercy. Izuna died under his sword, and everything that came of it is therefore Tobirama’s responsibility. Even Hashirama’s death can be laid at his feet, if one follows the ripples forward, and that aches more than anything. For all of Tobirama’s faults, he has always loved his brother dearly.

Tobirama is not one for guilt or grief or regrets, for looking back when there is still a way to push forward. He is a shinobi, has never been anything else, has always been proud of his legacy and the road he set Konoha on after he took his place as Hokage.

But he was blind, before, to just what he had wrought, and now he cannot be. Now he has seen the world dragged down into blood and hatred and insanity, and the roots of the conflict are the seeds he planted and nurtured into growth. And for that, because of that, Tobirama feels guilt. For that, he is willing to grieve. For that, he regrets.

A long life, so many advances, but what did it come to in the end? What did he give the world, beyond the very thing his brother fought so hard to prevent?

Only hatred. Only pain. Only death.

He thinks of the Sage of Six Paths releasing them, all of the reincarnated Hokage, thinks of brilliant light and a hope for the world and the Pure Land opening up before him. Thinks of peace so close at hand, at last, and then…this.

Descending darkness and a freshly dug grave, a child’s body and a second chance given to him yet again.

_I hope_ , he thinks, to the Sage or the gods or whatever being it was that cast him here. _I hope you do not expect me to sit back and let things play out as they did before._

There's no answer beyond a whisper of wind through the trees, but that’s enough. Tobirama draws in a shaking breath and lifts his face to the darkening sky, staring up at the slim crescent already rising above the hills.

So much suffering. So many lives.

But this time, he’ll make sure the path is clear before his brother, that Madara walks it by Hashirama’s side unhindered by madness or loss.

“He was only seven! How much longer must this war drag on?!”

Hashirama, but Tobirama doesn’t look over at him, can't, not when the last thing he remembers from the previous cycle is his brother’s horrified eyes as he forced Hashirama to kill him. That wasn’t the right answer either—not Madara's death and not his own. But that’s what Tobirama knows more than anything, death and killing and the careful, treacherous balance of vengeance and peace. If that is not the answer, if this is not some twisted game he can win with cunning or strength, then what good is he? What use is he? What use is there in sending him back to so many different points, again and again?

Itama is crying. He always was the most soft-hearted of them all.

“It will end when one side is completely eradicated,” their father says unyieldingly, sharp and harsh. “Death and war will pave the way for peace.”

He is what this time has made him, and Tobirama neither loves nor hates him for it. He never shed tears for Senju Butsuma, when he died, but then, Tobirama cannot remember the last time he shed tears at all. Perhaps his heart is frozen, he thinks distantly, because even now, with the pain of his little brother’s death aching in his chest, he feels no urge to cry. He never has, and though he knows it is no way to measure strength and weakness, he wonders if Hashirama is stronger, since he can freely shed the tears Tobirama keeps locked up deep within himself.

Hashirama takes a breath, and says, careful and soft, pure blasphemy in this time of death and war, “Even if it means doing so with the blood of innocent children?”

Tobirama has lived this through once already, and his feet are moving before he consciously registers the decision as being made. Speed, nothing like Namikaze Minato's but still more than most, and Tobirama steps in front of his brother half an instant before their father’s fist descends. The force of the blow snaps his head to the side and makes his ears ring, because for all his memories of strength and all the lifetime’s worth of skill he still possesses, this is a child’s frail and fragile body.

He staggers, falls to one knee with blood oozing from his split lip, and raises his chin to meet their father’s furious, narrowed eyes evenly.

“Father,” he says carefully, remembering the excuse that averted a beating the first time. “Hashirama is simply overwhelmed by his emotions. Please, forgive him.”

Because, at ten, Tobirama has already proved himself a loyal follower, a good soldier who does not question orders and kills when he’s told, Butsuma steps back. He studies Tobirama’s face narrowly for a moment, then inclines his head in a brief, brusque nod and turns away. Tobirama doesn’t listen to his warning, directed at Hashirama, but raises a hand to wipe the blood off of his chin.

_Penance_ , he thinks again, but that isn’t quite right. _Another chance_ , and that’s better—not perfect, but closer.

He thinks of peace, of Izuna falling before him, of the grief in Hashirama’s eyes when he made Hashirama press the sword against his throat, and he curls his hands into fists.

_Oh. I see. The seeds of the future._

Not hatred, turning Madara against them.

Not avoidance of the war, leaving the other side free to retaliate.

Not blind sacrifice at the cost of his brother’s brightness and hope.

Another path, perhaps. Not left or right or halted halfway, but…a new trail entirely. For all of them.

‘ _Ah_ ,’ the voice says, light and satisfied, and the only darkness closing in is that of the oncoming night. ‘ _Now you are beginning to see._ ’


	2. trust your heart

 “Heading out to train?” Kazuo asks politely as Madara passes him in the hall. He smiles, but doesn’t wait for an answer, vanishing into the room Madara just left and sliding to door shut behind him.

Madara pauses, considering, and then takes two steps closer to the wall and tilts his head to hear what his father and his father’s right hand have to discuss.

“It’s been confirmed,” Kazuo says lowly, voice thick with poorly contained anger. “Butsuma’s son survived.”

His father makes a dissatisfied noise, a complementary anger rising. “And the men?”

“All dead. Kane just succumbed to his wounds. Whoever did this was absolutely merciless.”

There's a sigh, steps, and then the creak of a cupboard opening. “Any information on the attacker? Was it a Senju, or one of the clans allied with them?”

Kazuo pauses for a long moment, but eventually murmurs, “None. We’ve confirmed it was only one shinobi, but that’s all. Given the squad’s target, though, it could even have been a passing stranger with too many ideals and no sense of keeping his nose out of our business.”

Tajima snorts, sharp and derisive. “Probably an Inuzuka,” he scoffs. “Kikue has always been blindingly softhearted where children are concerned. If she’s not careful, she won't have a clan left soon.”

“Or a Hatake,” Kazuo offers, mockingly amused, but Madara rolls his eyes and doesn’t stay to hear more. Once his father and Kazuo start deriding other clans, they won't move on to anything of interest for at least two hours. He heads down the corridor at a near run, passing several Uchiha who nod politely but never pause.

He wants to say he’s disappointed that last night’s attack failed; the very thought of killing one of the Senju Clan Head’s sons is satisfying, because three of Madara's brothers are dead at Senju hands. But it’s…not. Because at this point, squads like that are little more than child-hunters, combing the countryside for any enemies young and weak enough for them to easily slaughter. Maybe it’s disrespectful of his fellow Uchiha, but Madara finds the whole thing distasteful. Not that battles should be fought on perfectly equal terms, with honor held above all else—they're shinobi, and shinobi are underhanded, and Madara can't imagine a fight without each side pulling at least a few tricks, but…

But children shouldn’t have to fight and die while shinobi five times their age hunt them like animals. It’s _wrong_ , and Madara doesn’t need the high-and-mighty morals of a Hyuuga to see that.

Other clans do it too, of course, but the Senju and the Uchiha are among the strongest. It’s more prevalent among them, far bloodier given their numbers. Numbers that are falling fast, and it’s _stupid_ to expect to have any sort of clan left soon, with so many children dying and so much retaliation from both sides.

Madara takes a breath, doesn’t let it shake, and ducks out of the Uchiha compound when the guard isn’t looking. He bolts into the forest, headed for the riverbank, because it’s almost impossible to think amidst the contained, organized bustle of the compound. The Uchiha as a clan are hardly boisterous, but they're a clan like any other, and human. Perhaps they're not the cheerful Akimichi, but they have their moments, and that many people living in close quarters can get loud.

( _And_ , he doesn’t allow himself to think, _maybe that boy will be there again_. This time he’ll skip his rock all the way to the other side and show him just how much better he’s gotten since last time.)

The boy with the bowl-cut is sitting on the shore when Madara emerges from the trees, staring out at the water with devastation all but radiating from him. Madara pauses warily for a long moment, debating, but the urge to talk to him again pushes him out of the safety of the forest, and he picks his way across the rocks. “Yo. Long time no see, um—”

The other boy glances up, and it’s a relief to see that he’s dry-eyed, somewhat against Madara's expectations but also to his great relief. He manages a faint smile, though he still looks pale and worn and sad, and says, “It’s Hashirama.”

A ridiculous name, to go along with that ridiculous haircut, Madara decides. He snorts, planting his hands on his hips and raising a brow at the boy. “Geez, sulking before I even showed up—what's wrong?”

It only takes a few quavering questions and prompt refusals to talk to convince Madara that this kid is absolutely _maddening._ He loses his temper—although, granted, he’s never had that tight a grip on it to begin with—when Hashirama looks like he’s about to start crying for real but still manages to get out, “It really is nothing…”

“Damn you! I'm trying to be considerate and understanding here, so hurry up and spill your guts!” he shouts.

Izuna would have turned around and kicked him in the shin for that, but Hashirama just winces, wipes his eyes, and says quietly, “My brother almost died last night. I was too slow, and couldn’t get to him in time. If Tobirama hadn’t managed it, I would have lost _another_ brother.”

And…okay, that’s worth a few tears, Madara admits to himself, thinking with a pang how he’d feel if Izuna came that close to death. How he _did_ feel, when all three of their brothers were killed. It’s just—it’s all just so _stupid_.

But…

But Hashirama seems to think that there's a chance for peace, for them to create a world where kids don’t have to kill each other. No one has ever shared Madara's fantasies of peaceful coexistence before; it’s strange and startling and _warm_ , right down to his bones. Even though Hashirama is a shinobi, is more than likely an enemy—and Madara isn’t going to think what clan he’s from, isn’t even going to consider it, because he’d rather not know—they have the same dreams. That’s…actually pretty cool.

His haircut still sucks, though.

 

Shamefully, it takes Madara almost three months to finally notice the spot of chakra that follows Hashirama at a careful distance, hovering on the top of the cliff while they spar or talk, and then following him back into the woods once he leaves. Madara doesn’t mention it to his friend, though. He waits until they're done sparring, with Hashirama sprawled out and snoring from a well-placed (and admittedly mostly lucky) blow to the chin, before he leaps lightly up the sheer rock face, making sure to keep his steps absolutely silent.

It’s possible Hashirama knows about his watcher, that it’s some sort of babysitter sent by his clan, but Madara doesn’t think so. The kid’s a bit of an idiot, even if he’s strong; there's no way he could be subtle about something like that. And, as foolish as it probably is, Madara…trusts him. He trusts that Hashirama isn’t betraying him, isn’t _going_ to betray him, and that he’d give some sort of sign if he knew he was being followed.

But the watcher doesn’t even try to duck and hide when Madara lands on the top of the bluff, kunai out and ready to strike. Instead, Hashirama’s stalker—a boy, younger than either of them, with a head of ridiculously shaggy white hair and dark red eyes—looks up from his book, meets Madara's fairly incredulous stare with a raised eyebrow, and then goes back to reading.

Madara glares at him for several moments, then huffs in exasperation and tucks his kunai away. “Got a reason for lurking?” he demands. “Or is this just another fun day of stalking for you?”

Silence for a moment, and then the boy glances up again, still markedly unimpressed. “I'm keeping an eye on my brother,” he says flatly, but before he can go back to his book once more Madara stalks forward and snatches it away, intent on getting answers. The kid narrows his eyes dangerously, chakra starting to build as he readies himself for a fight, but Madara hops two steps away in retreat and crosses his arms over his chest, glaring right back.

“Brother?” he repeats dubiously, studying the white-haired boy and trying to find any features in common with the idiot he just left. There aren’t many. This kid’s coloring is pretty much the complete opposite of Hashirama’s dark hair and deeply tanned skin, and Madara has never seen eyes quite that red outside of the Sharingan. Their builds are different, and even their faces are differently shaped, with this boy’s being far more angular than Hashirama’s broad, classically handsome looks.

Though, at least, this stalker seems to have found the fashion sense Hashirama apparently misplaced, clad in a blue kimono shirt over fishnet, a deep green sash, and loose dark grey pants. Not flashy, but certainly better than the pinstripes.

A little surprisingly, the glare disappears, and he gets a faintly amused arched brow. The kid inclines his head, weirdly formal for a brat, and says blandly, “Hashirama, yes.”

Madara stares at him for another moment. “Just…keeping an eye on him?” he echoes. “You do know he’s down there unconscious right now, yeah? I knocked him out.”

The kid looks entirely unflustered, holding out one hand with an expectant expression that clearly demands the return of his book. “It’s probably good for him,” he answers dryly, and when Madara doesn’t move adds, “My book, please? I promise, you can beat him up as much as you want and I won't tell on you.”

Ah, a little brother’s love. Madara is more than familiar with that particular brand of loving, respectful abuse. He rolls his eyes and tosses the book back. “So? Do you have a name, or should I just call you Stalker?”

Another unimpressed expression, and there is _no way_ this kid is related to the goofy, sulky, energetic, and sort of dweebish Hashirama. “I'm Tobirama.”

Madara is sensing a naming theme here, and it kind of sucks. “The space between two doors? Really?”

Tobirama ignores him and goes back to his book. “You say that like you’ve room to talk, ‘Spots’.”

That makes Madara bristle, but he decides virtuously to be the bigger man here and lets the argument go before it can degrade to hair-pulling. Not that he thinks Tobirama would take the stick out of his ass long enough to indulge in something like that. Turning, he heads for the edge of the cliff again, crouching in preparation to leap back down. Then, as a thought occurs to him, he pauses.

“Don’t worry,” Tobirama says without looking up, as if he’s reading Madara's mind even though he’s not blond enough to be a Yamanaka. “I'm a sensor type. I’d be more than able to feel it if anyone else was following my brother, and _I'm_ certainly not going to tell anyone where he’s going. I’d much rather _you_ deal with all the sulking and flouncing, rather than me.”

Madara laughs before he can stop himself, because to be that familiar with his particular brand of ridiculousness clearly Tobirama _is_ Hashirama’s brother, taste in clothes aside. “Fine, but you owe me one,” he retorts, then vaults over the edge and leaps down the cliff, landing lightly beside his snoring friend.

The chakra signature on the cliff stays there until Hashirama leaves, and then appears with him the next day, and practically every day after that. Hashirama never seems to notice, but Madara never quite manages to forget.

 

It’s another two months before Madara interacts with Hashirama’s brother again. Summer is finally fading into fall, and the morning is bright and crisp. Hashirama isn’t at the river when Madara arrives—he’d said last time that he wouldn’t be able to sneak out this week, and then been evasive when Madara wanted to know why and left before Madara could make him talk. But that’s all right, because Madara's existence doesn’t depend solely on the presence of a sulky, cheerful boy with a bowl-cut. They're just…

Friends. Friends who share the same dream, and that’s more than enough.

However, when he steps out of the trees, there's a figure seated on the rocky ground several feet from the river’s edge, a sword across his lap and a whetstone in hand. Madara pauses, studying him with narrowed eyes, and then huffs and heads down to the water.

“I thought you were busy this week,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. It’s an unconscious gesture, no matter how many times Izuna teases him that it makes him look like their mother.

Tobirama glances up at him, assessing, and then back down at his sword. He’s not one for eye contact, Madara's noticed. Or maybe it’s just Madara's face in particular he doesn’t like to look at, which is…irksome. Madara's always thought himself to be at the very least sort of good-looking.

“Hashirama is,” he corrects, with the faintest hint of smugness coloring his tone. It’s nice to know he’s not an emotionless robot, no matter how he acts. “I was excused for training.”

“And this is training?” Madara asks doubtfully, but he takes a seat on the rocks next to the younger boy. It’s…strange, because when Hashirama is here they're never still for a second. Even when they're talking, Hashirama’s expansive hand gestures and uncontained enthusiasm are infectious, and Madara is willing to admit he gets a bit caught up in it all.

After a moment, Tobirama glances at him again, offering up one of the sharpening stones sitting by his leg. Madara debates it for a second, but then accepts it with a sigh and starts pulling out his kunai. Tobirama pushes his bottle of honing oil across the space as well, and then says, as though there wasn’t a gaping pause in their conversation, “I already did my training. There _is_ such a thing as too much.”

That’s…a little surprising to hear a boy probably three years younger than him say. Izuna still struggles with the concept of giving the body time to rest, and he’s had it drilled into his head by their father, who’s hardly a lenient teacher. Madara eyes the white-haired boy for a moment, then focuses on applying a thin coat of oil to the whetstone. “And now you're just hiding out here?”

“It’s peaceful.” Tobirama shrugs faintly. “It may be Brother’s special place, but if he doesn’t know I was here, he won't feel like it’s been invaded.” Then that faintly smug smile comes back, just tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Besides, I won't be looked for until evening. Hashirama is the one who has to escort Mito around, since he’s older.”

Mito—definitely a girl’s name. Madara is beginning to get a sneaking suspicion of just why Hashirama was so flustered and evasive yesterday. He grins, imagining Hashirama stuck towing around a fluttery, fancy girl for the next week, and when he glances up to find the oil again Tobirama is watching him, expression amused.

“So,” Madara asks lightly, hardly able to contain his humor. “Is she pretty?”

Tobirama snorts, and something in the set of his shoulders eases a little. Madara hadn’t even been aware that he was tense. “Very,” he answers wryly. “And they're already engaged, so Brother doesn’t have to worry about acting like himself and alienating her before the first date is even over.”

Arranged marriages are hardly uncommon, though it does speak to his assumption that Hashirama is the eldest son of someone important in his clan. Not that Madara is thinking about that. He finishes with his kunai and sets it aside, but instead of reaching for another he takes a moment to watch Tobirama. The younger boy is still working on his sword, expression quiet and focused. His fingers are deft and careful, almost reverent, and Madara wonders if it’s his first blade. Probably not, given the world they live in.

“Are you any good with that thing?” he demands, because he came out here to do at least a little training, and even if it’s not against Hashirama, maybe his brother can be second best.

Tobirama’s eyes narrow faintly, and he looks up. He’s added red tattoos to his face in thin lines since the first time they met, one under each of his eyes and one on his chin. They sharpen his features even more, highlight the angle of his cheekbones and his eyes, but it’s not the sort of look that’s usual for a kid. He’s, what, ten years old? Eleven? Most kids, even clan kids getting the traditional markings, wait until they're at least into puberty.

“You ask a lot of questions,” Tobirama retorts, though he doesn’t sound angry.

Madara smirks. “I bet you say that to your brother all the time,” he taunts, and, on cue, Tobirama closes his eyes in the perfect expression of longsuffering endurance and sighs through his nose.

“Hashirama is…always very interested in my life,” he agrees with a pained sort of blandness. Madara snorts, because he can just imagine it, Hashirama poking at his brother until Tobirama snaps and yells at him, and then dragging himself off to sulk in a corner somewhere. And then repeating the entire process five minutes later, because he’s impossible in the most endearing ways. Kind of like a puppy that chews on the furniture, but is then so enthusiastic to see you it’s just not feasible to stay mad at it.

“Your village,” Tobirama says suddenly, making Madara blink. He raises a brow at the younger boy, who’s determinedly not looking at him again. “The one you are both going to build. Would you have need of someone to help with administration?”

Madara blinks again, his second eyebrow rising to join the first. “You want to be a _bureaucrat_?” he asks incredulously. That’s…definitely not the normal dream of a ten-year-old boy. At that age, Madara's fairly certain he was still dreaming of being some sort of super-shinobi with all the powers of a god. Not…a paper-pusher.

Tobirama makes a dismissive sound, but his hands have paused on the whetstone and there's a distant sort of contemplation in his red eyes. “Not a bureaucrat,” he corrects. “A…planner. Someone who thinks up institutions that will better the village, and then sees that they're created.”

“Like what?” Madara asks, curious despite himself.

“An academy,” Tobirama answers promptly, like he’s thought of this before, and maybe he has. It has to get boring, just sitting on that cliff and watching his brother all day. “A school that teaches the basics of the shinobi arts to anyone who wants to learn, whether they're from an old and well-established clan or not. If you teach everyone to have the same values, it builds a sense of community. And…special divisions, among shinobi ranks. An elite force to protect the village. Exams, to advance through the ranks without having to wait for a battlefield promotion. A police force, open to all shinobi, to keep the peace within the village.”

Madara stares at the other boy for a long minute, entirely speechless. He and Hashirama have mostly been looking at the big things, in their planning. Buildings, streets, walls and gates. But this is…

“I think you're hired,” he says dryly, spinning a kunai around his finger absently. “That’s…not the kind of thing most people would come up with.”

Just for a moment, a heartbeat so brief that Madara almost dismisses it as his imagination, Tobirama looks wistful. Sad. Then it’s gone, buried under the neutral mask he usually wears. The whetstone starts moving again, steady and unwavering. “I like creating things. Seals, jutsus, taijutsu combinations—anything. It’s…good, to make something new that no one has thought of before, which will help people. I don’t get to do it very much right now, because we’re always fighting, but I like it.”

Madara thinks of Izuna, always so happy to learn new skills, always intent on becoming the absolute best shinobi he can be, and smiles to himself. He’d…maybe sort of forgotten that little brothers have dreams, too. And Tobirama’s are big, for all that they're eminently practical. In fact, ‘eminently practical’ seems like a good descriptor of Tobirama in general. It doesn’t make them worth anything less, though—on the contrary, it makes Tobirama all the more important, since he for one isn’t walking around with his head in the clouds. Madara's been accused of that a time or two, and for Hashirama it’s pretty much a permanent state. A little grounding could be useful.

With a sigh, Madara sets his kunai down and leans back on his hands, squinting up at the brilliantly blue sky. “You're talking like we can't achieve peace,” he points out after a second. “But that’s the whole point of this.”

Tobirama flicks a glance at him again, but this time instead of looking away he holds Madara's eyes. “Peace will be hard to achieve,” he says bluntly. “You might work for it all your life and never see it happen. Blind belief won't do anything but end your dream before it can take hold. But at one point, this entire forest was just empty ground, and I think peace is the same. Once the seeds are planted, the roots will reach deep, and then the tree can grow.”

“Geez.” Madara scrubs a hand over his hair, torn between irritation, incredulity, and the faintest hint of awe. “How old are you again? Where do you get off talking like an old geezer?”

That gets him yet another narrow-eyed glare—Tobirama seems fond of the expression, or at least well-practiced in it—before the white-haired boy abruptly sets his sharpening kit aside and rises to his feet. “I'm very good with a sword,” he says, and that too is utterly blunt, not bragging at all somehow. “Do you want to spar?”

Madara stands too, because that was what he was getting at, asking about Tobirama’s sword. “I suppose I could humor you,” he says archly, just to see the way Tobirama’s expression darkens and his chakra flares like an angry sea crashing against the shore. “Just don’t be crushed when I win, kid. I've got a few years on you, after all.”

For some reason, that makes Tobirama huff out a soft laugh, a sound which Madara had honestly kind of thought him incapable of making. He leaps back three steps, right out onto the water, and drops into a kenjutsu stance, sword up and ready.

A test of chakra control, then? Madara can do that.

With a sharp grin, he follows Tobirama out and then throws himself forward, kunai leading the way.

 

So Hashirama’s little brother is honestly kind of a bit terrifying, and he’s definitely not boasting when he says he’s the fastest shinobi of their generation. Probably, if Madara is truthful with himself, of _any_ generation so far. But he likes to think that he put up a good fight regardless of the outcome.

They're stretched out on the grass above the riverbank in the lengthening shadows, both breathing hard and a little battered, and Madara pushes up on his elbow to declare, “Okay, next time I'm not gonna go that easy on you.”

The pissy expression it earns him is amazing, and Madara grins, flopping back down with a laugh. Hashirama is a little disappointing to tease, mostly because of the sulking thing, but Tobirama gives as good as he gets and never backs down. Another little brother thing, now that Madara thinks about it, although he certainly doesn’t consider Tobirama _his_ little brother. Hashirama can keep him; Izuna is enough trouble as it is.

“My father asked me to follow Brother when he disappears,” Tobirama says out of the blue, making Madara twist around to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, though, tracing over the gathering clouds. “I’ll tell him Hashirama is training alone by the river, but your father might think to do the same. You should watch out for tails.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Madara retorts automatically, but his mind is racing. Maybe this week’s break is a good thing. He’ll let whoever they send out after him—probably Izuna, who’s better than most at staying unseen—see him skipping stones and practicing his katas, and that should be the end of it. Then he stiffens, because—

“Sensor,” Tobirama reminds him, sounding distinctly annoyed. “I can pick out every person with a chakra signature in this part of Fire Country. I’d notice if someone was following you.”

The mere thought of having a range like that makes Madara swallow, his throat suddenly dry. That’s…pretty impressive. Tobirama in general seems pretty impressive. Madara's called a prodigy, and knows he’s good, but that’s a lot of chakra control and pinpoint accuracy for a ten-year-old kid. Combine that with his speed, and…

Yeah. Terrifying is probably a good word for it.

 _And_ he’s a tricky, underhanded little bastard, waiting until the very moment Madara had thought he’d won to deliver a finishing strike. If they weren’t shinobi, Madara would most definitely call that cheating.

“Thanks for the warning,” he says, rather than inflating the kid’s ego any further, and pushes to his feet. “Go punch your brother for me, yeah?”

“If Mito hasn’t already beaten me to it.” Tobirama sounds amused again, sitting up and crossing his legs under him. He hesitates for another moment, so long that Madara is about to turn and leave when he finally says, “Thank you. For the spar.”

Madara gives him his smuggest smile, practiced on Hashirama daily. “Sure. But like I said, I'm not going easy on you next time!”

Tobirama growls, but Madara is already halfway to the other bank and running. Not _fleeing_ , because scary or not there's no way he’s running from a kid younger than him. But Izuna is probably waiting, and dinner is soon.

He might have a bit more appreciation for little brothers, after today. Not just as someone to be protected, but as a shinobi with dreams of their own, and the willpower and strength to achieve them.


	3. epilogue: if the seas catch fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First birthday present down! Hah, and I'm even early. I was going to wait and post this on our actual birthday, but my brother has no understanding of delayed gratification and demanded I cough it up pretty much the minute I got done writing. 
> 
> So here, brother dearest, oh blood-bonded and twin-souled pain my rear. All suckiness is your own fault, capisce? I totally love you, never forget that bit.
> 
> Now everybody brace yourselves. It’s either Utakata or Shisui and Itachi up next.

Madara turns seventeen during a lull in the fighting, on a cold December day when it’s just about cold enough to snow. Snow in Fire Country is rare, but Madara loves it, the cold, crisp cleanness of the world once it starts to fall. There's a celebration happening, large and loud, because he’s the Clan Head’s son and it’s expected, but he sneaks out as soon as he can be sure he won't be missed. Izuna watches him go with a smile, knowing his fascination with snow, and Madara waves his thanks as he ducks out of the main house and heads for the river.

Night is falling, making it colder still, and Madara's breath clouds in gusts of white as he hurries through the darkened trees. When he lands on the bank of the river, Hashirama is already there and waiting, shivering inside a good number of layers and blowing on his hands for warmth. Upon seeing Madara, he brightens like a light going on beneath his skin, and grins. “Happy birthday!” he crows, bouncing closer. The awful bowl-cut is gone, thankfully, and in its place his hair brushes his shoulders, straight and dark. He’s finally growing into his looks, and Madara thinks vaguely that Mito is probably lucky, given most arranged marriages.

He’s still an idiot with no fashion sense, though.

“We’re finally the same age again,” he agree with a sniff. “No more holding two extra months over my head, bastard.”

Hashirama just laughs, because at twelve or seventeen, he’s always irrepressible, and thrusts a cloth-wrapped package into Madara's hands. “A good thing I've still got those four inches to hold over your head, then,” he counters cheerfully.

“Idiot!” Madara glares at him, and gets big pouty eyes and a trembling lip in answer as Hashirama crumples.

“I'm sorry…I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it, right? I'm sorry I'm this tall, I really am.”

Madara rolls his eyes in exasperation and leaves Hashirama to his melancholy, carefully unwrapping his gift. He folds the bright red silk, then opens the box, and smiles at the sight of a full set of inks and brushes, finely made and beautiful.

“Thank you,” he says, tugging his scarf up a little higher as the wind gusts past them. Hashirama is looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and Madara reaches over and punches him gently in the shoulder. “Thank you. I love them.”

Hashirama beams, wide and silly, and bounces on his toes. “Wonderful!” he declares brightly, and then glances back towards his side of the river, expression taking on a guilty cast. “Ah…I'm supposed to be meeting with some other clan heirs right now. I should probably go. But I wanted to make sure to wish you a happy birthday.”

“Idiot,” Madara says again, but it’s not nearly as biting as it should be. Closer to fond, but after five years of these meetings Hashirama is his best friend, and Madara can't even pretend otherwise at this point. “You already said that. And you're going to get in trouble again. Get lost, you hear me?”

For a long moment, Hashirama stares at him. Then, before Madara can even begin to defend himself, he lunges forward, wraps Madara in a tight, bone-breaking hug that literally lifts him off his feet, and then releases him and darts back towards the other shore. “Bye!” he shouts as he goes. “See you next week!”

Madara growls impotently at his retreating back, entirely fed up with oversized idiots using their extra inches and pounds to take advantage of normal, non-giant people. But he looks down at the writing set and can't help but smile as he lifts the lid again. It’s…nice, having a best friend. One who understands his dreams, and doesn’t gift him with weapons.

Footsteps crunch across the stones, a clearly deliberate tell of the person’s presence, and Madara doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

“Still stalking your brother?” he taunts, though that’s a little fond, too. He likes to think he hides it better than with Hashirama, though, given their more abrasive relationship.

Tobirama huffs disgustedly at him, a pale wraith in the night. His hair is longer too (because apparently the Senju don’t believe in trims, not that Madara is really one to talk), falling in a shaggy mane around his face, and he’s added a happuri faceguard and a jacket with a white fur collar. At fourteen, almost fifteen, he’s still kind of skinny and angular, but he moves like someone four times his age, all grace and deadly silence. They’ve faced each other on the battlefield—albeit halfheartedly, and pretty much putting on a show for anyone watching—and he might not have Hashirama’s mokuton, but he’s still dangerous.

If Hashirama is the dragon, standing tall and wise and honorable, Tobirama is the silver lion crouched at his feet, swift and merciless and proud.

But he’s also not a threat, not to their dream and not to Madara or his brother. Twice now, Tobirama had the chance to kill Izuna on the battlefield, because for all that Izuna is brilliant Tobirama is better, but Tobirama turned aside, struck with the flat of his blade no matter what punishment it earned him from his father, and Madara appreciates it more than he will ever say. The younger boy is standoffish and arrogant and logical to an actual fault, but he’s utterly unwavering in his devotion to Hashirama, to the idea of a peaceful village, and that’s something to admire.

“Here,” Tobirama says, and Madara barely has time to catch the package that’s thrown at him before it smacks him in the face. He blinks at it, then at the other boy, and Tobirama rolls his eyes. “Happy birthday,” he growls, like it’s deeply offensive to even say it.

“You're really not good at this human interaction stuff, are you?” Madara needles, because that’s what they do. It’s an easy enough pattern to fall into, these days.

Tobirama crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl. “Brother insisted,” he bites out. “Since he seems to be under the mistaken impression that we’re friends.”

Madara rolls his eyes right back. “You're such a brat.” But he pulls away the cloth to find several long strips of leather, carefully cut, a pair of silver bells, and a tiny leather hood. He blinks in shock, staring down at the falconry equipment he’s absolutely certain he never mentioned wanting.

“If you don’t want people to know that you like falcons, you should pick the feathers out of your hair before going out in public,” Tobirama says dryly. He’s once again carefully not looking at Madara, and it’s too dark to see if he’s flushing, but Madara kind of suspects he is. “I simply extrapolated.”

“I…thank you, Tobirama,” Madara says softly, surprising himself with the honesty of it. He’d thought his interest in falconry was a secret, something frivolous and not worth noticing, but apparently Tobirama noticed.

It begs the question of why.

“You're welcome.” Tobirama nods, sharp and decisive, and then turns on his heel, takes a step, and seems to vanish into thin air.

Even after five years, his speed still manages to be truly impressive.

But Madara has more to think on than just that right now. He stares down at the package in his hand, thinks of Tobirama watching him closely enough to notice a stray feather in his hair—he _knows_ it hasn’t happened more than once; he’s more careful than that—his stubborn insistence that they're not friends, the way he never looks Madara in the eyes longer than he has to. And…wonders.

The touch of something cold and wet on his cheek makes him look up. There are snowflakes drifting in the air, just starting to descend, and Madara can't help but smile. The year’s first snowfall, and on his birthday—surely he can take that as a good omen. After all, he’s seventeen, has survived this long already. Izuna is still alive, still the same as ever, and his best friend is a Senju who’s more than willing to work towards peace with him. Their fathers are still alive, yes, still at war, but…they can wait. And once they're in control of their clans, they can start on their dream. It won't be that much longer now.

“Aniki?” Izuna calls softly from the trees, and Madara turns to look at him, tucking the Senju brothers’ gifts out of sight in his robes.

“Here, Izuna,” he answers. “I'm just watching the snow.”

“I don’t understand your fascination with this stuff,” Izuna complains, huddling deeper into his scarf. “It’s _cold_.”

Madara snorts in amusement, and then blinks as an idea comes to him. Maybe not the best one, but—Izuna is good with people, good at picking out their motivations and goals. It’s worth a try, at least.

“Hey, Izuna,” he ventures carefully. “Can I get some advice?”

Izuna makes a surprised noise behind the collar of his jacket, though he doesn’t let more than his eyes show. “About what?”

“Someone gave me a gift,” he says. “One that I didn’t tell anyone I wanted. They're always watching me, but they say we’re not friends and get irritated with me easily, and… Izuna. Why are you laughing at me?”

“Sorry, sorry!” Izuna gasps out, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all, pressing his hands over his mouth to keep in his snickers. “Just—I knew you’d start noticing girls one day, aniki. She obviously has a crush on you—that’s why it irritates her when you say you're friends. Tell me, is she pretty?”

Madara blinks, slightly poleaxed. “Yes,” his mouth says automatically, without any input from his brain—though, in retrospect, he supposes it’s true enough. Tobirama certainly isn’t classically handsome like his brother, but he’s still appealing.

…And that is absolutely as far as Madara is planning to go, thinking of Hashirama’s little brother that way.

But…could it be true?

It certainly fits more than any of the other theories Madara has come up with by himself.

“Do you…really think so?” he asks, still vaguely bewildered.

Izuna chuckles, throwing an arm over Madara's shoulders and tugging him along as he turns to head home. “I really do,” he affirms. “So? Do I get to meet her?”

“No,” Madara says immediately—mostly for the sake of his sanity—and then glares at his little brother when Izuna starts snickering again. “Oh, shut up. I'm still working it all out in my head.”

“Don’t take too long,” Izuna advises cheerfully. “If she’s a kunoichi, you're liable to get stabbed if you make her wait.”

With Tobirama, he’s liable to get stabbed either way.

“Don’t worry, aniki. If she’s watching you closely enough to figure out what you like without any hints, she’s either got the world’s biggest crush on you or she secretly thinks you're a mass murderer, I promise.”

Knowing his luck, it’s the latter. Madara sighs and resigns himself to a lot of covert observation—and possibly the world’s most awkward conversation—in his near future.

At his side, Izuna glances up into the softly falling snow and smiles. “Still dreaming of a peaceful world?” he asks. “It might be nice to raise a family like that, don’t you think?”

Madara thinks of their village, still nothing more than a handful of plans and sketches and dreams. Thinks of Hashirama and his driving will, so well hidden behind his cheery, ditzy façade. Thinks of Tobirama with his sharp red eyes and impermeable logic and dream to build a school for all the children who want to be shinobi. And it’s…good. So good. Maybe they haven’t made it yet, maybe their dreams still have a ways to go before they're realized, but they've set their feet firmly on the path and that’s a good enough start.

_At one point, this entire forest was just empty ground, and I think peace is the same. Once the seeds are planted, the roots will reach deep, and then the tree can grow._

Tobirama’s words, but they make him smile. Make him wonder, because if anyone beside Hashirama understands it’s Tobirama, and that’s as good a bond to start with as any.

“I think,” he tells his little brother, “that there's absolutely nothing I want more.”

 

(Somewhere very far away, Tobirama sneezes hard, almost stumbling from the force of it. With a laugh, Hashirama catches him by the elbow, and says knowingly, “Hey, Madara must be talking about you! Maybe he returns your feelings!”

Tobirama stares at his brother for a long moment, then pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a slow, careful breath in an attempt to control his temper. It isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, and Tobirama’s luck is dismal enough that it probably won't be the last.

“I,” he says deliberately and clearly, as though talking to a child, “do not have a crush on Madara.”

Certainly, Tobirama can admit he’s handsome, but—

 _No._ No, actually, never mind. He isn’t willing to admit that at all.

Hashirama opens his mouth to protest, but Tobirama already feels unsettled enough by the whole scene on the riverbank (Madara, that grateful expression, _feelings_ —it’s all enough to give him _hives_ ) and has absolutely no patience for this romance kick his brother seems to be stuck on. Mito’s influence, without a doubt. He ducks into his room, slides the door closed with enough force to let Hashirama know he’s not welcome, and latches it securely.

He spares one more moment to consider the ridiculous idea of Madara having feelings for _him_ , then snorts and shakes his head.

And then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a presence he’s all too familiar with finally stirs after years of silence.

‘ _Well_ ,’ the voice says, warm and eminently satisfied, and this time there's only light accompanying it. ‘ _That’s certainly a path you haven’t tried before. Have you thought that maybe that’s the answer?_ ’

Tobirama growls and contemplates strangling himself with his sash.

But—

Maybe he was smiling, just a little, when Madara stared down at his gift in awe. That was just—

The Sage laughs at him before all sense of his presence vanishes like a stray bit of breeze, and Tobirama is alone again with several new thoughts to contemplate.

With a sigh, he throws himself down on his futon and closes his eyes. Remembers Naruto and Sasuke, back in the future that isn’t any more, children who should have had a far better life than they did but made the best of what they were given regardless.

This is their dream, as much as it is Hashirama’s. The dream of future generations, as well as those present. This Madara, who knows loss but hasn’t been broken by it, who strives for peace side by side with Hashirama, seems to understand that.

And…maybe that’s as good a bond to start with as any.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my brother, whom I followed into the world, followed through childhood, followed to America (and into fandom), followed back home, and will more than likely follow right back out of this world as well. You are my lightness, my rock, my laughter, my twin, and I truly cannot imagine a life without you. The world would be so much darker if you weren’t by my side, and I love you for everything you are and everything you aren’t. I'm the luckiest sister in existence, and it’s about time I told you that.


End file.
